Mending
by Dhampir72
Summary: Hanna was good at putting me back together. But it wasn't always me who needed mending. Shameless Hanna/ … fluff.


**Title**: Mending

**Summary**: Hanna was good at putting me back together. But it wasn't always me who needed mending. Shameless Hanna/{…} fluff.

**Rating**: PG(13)ish.

**Characters**: Hanna, {…}

**Genre**: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

**Author's Note**: So shoot me, I should be writing my D. Gray-Man fanfiction(s), but I just can't pass up this plot bunny. I love HINABN way too much, and this pairing doubly so.

**pqpq**

**1.**

Hanna was good at mending things.

I noticed this over time, when my brief stay extended into weeks, which then turned to months that Hanna did not seem to mind and I certainly did not mind. That was when his cramped, third floor flat became my home and despite the cracks in the ceiling and the bad neighborhood and noisy people who screamed at all hours of the night, I would not have considered anywhere else _home_.

That was when I noticed the mending, which extended from clothes to everything else that made up Hanna's apartment. There were small, black stitches on the sleeves of his favorite gray sweater and duct tape on the left side of his checkered sneakers. In the bathroom, the crack in the bottom left hand corner of the mirror had been fixed with a clear epoxy and the exposed wires for the appliances like the toaster and the television set had been sealed up with black and red electrical tape. There were patches on the knees of Hanna's jeans and on the arms of the sagging couch, the blankets on the bed, and the lopsided pillow that Hanna clutched to his chest every night while he slept. The sad, tiny window in the kitchen area of the flat did not stay open without the help of a small piece of plywood and the handle on every pan Hanna owned did not match.

In essence, our home was the epitome of things that, despite being old and—by some people's standards—useless, had not been thrown away. Instead, Hanna had repaired them so that they could still function. He gave purpose to the purposeless.

That was another reason why, I liked where we lived, and who I lived _with_.

**2.**

Hanna was not only good at mending things, but he was also good at mending me.

Being past my expiration date for who knew how long, I tended to fall apart quite easily, especially in our line of work. In that sense, I presume that I had to be the luckiest undead to have someone like Hanna—who was so good at mending—take such good care of me during these times. He always smiled when he did it, even though my cold, mutilated flesh would have made anyone disgusted. Except for Hanna, who—just like when he fixed _anything_—smiled and his blue eyes were so brilliant behind his glasses that I couldn't help but smile too.

**3.**

Hanna does his best to mend everything, but sometimes, he forgets about himself.

He's always working his hardest, no matter what and putting forth so much effort that the bags beneath his eyes rival mine at times. And still, he smiles and keeps pushing himself to such extremes that I feel a twinge where my heart used to steadily beat with life. I realize, during one of my late-night musings as I sit by Hanna's mattress, that I am worried about him more than usual.

**4.**

Hanna is a mender and so, it is hard for him when the roles are reversed.

When we are out one night on a case and the circles are too deep beneath his eyes, I know. I see his fingers tremble when they hold the sharpie and I am compelled by something within me to _stop_ him. I put my hand over his before he can write a rune, but he just smiles and says:

_I'm fine_.

**5.**

I'm not very good at fixing things, not like Hanna.

I can straighten up the messes in the flat: clean the floors and the window, fold laundry, and wash dishes. Once, I tried to fix the number on the door. But the next day, the 6 was hanging upside down again and it swung back and forth when the door opened or closed. So usually, I make breakfast for Hanna before he has to go to work. I do my best to remember what he likes and how he likes it so that at least he knows that I care enough to know. But after he leaves for the day, I do the dishes and think. Then I pace the floor for a while and contemplate, letting my eyes roam over the books and pages with runes and spells that I can never use. I'm not like Hanna in that sense, so I cannot help him when he most needs me: on our cases that stretch to darkened, dangerous alleyways and decrepit buildings. There is nothing helpful I can do except take the punches for Hanna when I can. The rest is all him, pushing himself more and more and more until soon I know there will be nothing left. All I can do is watch and make breakfast the way he likes it.

I think sometimes that that is the extent of my usefulness.

**6.**

Hanna is as worn as the soles of his shoes.

I notice this when he lays down one night and forgets to take them off. He's already asleep, so I move quietly across the floor and kneel next to him. I take his left foot in my hand and slip off the mended, checkered shoe, before doing the same with the right. Setting them aside, I cover Hanna with the blanket all the way to his chin. He looks so pale in the moonlight that I feel that twinge of worry again. To distract from this, I take off his glasses and put them on the windowsill. Then I cannot still my hand as it moves gently through Hanna's red hair. His breath is light against my wrist and I see his eyes moving behind the lids in deep sleep. His lashes flutter as he dreams. But that is all.

He does not move all night as I sit beside him.

**7.**

Hanna's going to die one day.

Between his recklessness and clumsy nature, I know that this is true. On top of that, he keeps pushing his body beyond what it can endure. It takes damage that it doesn't need to, especially when I should have received the injury in the first place. For me, having something sewn back on is nothing and a needle moving through my skin feels like pinpricks that are so tiny that they are not even unpleasant. But for Hanna, his body is fragile. Too fragile. I know this because when I hold him in my arms, his weight is almost nonexistent, like his breath, which is so shallow I cannot even hear it.

I bring him to Worth, who swears with his customary colorful phrases as I put Hanna on the table in the back room, like usual. But no matter how many times Hanna lays on that cold steel—unmoving and with his chest just barely rising and falling with life—I cannot become used to it. I want to stay, but I am banished again, and left to stand outside the door with that twinge in my chest. I can smell Worth's cigarettes and my hands shake beneath the sleeves of my coat. I can't remember anything about my life before Hanna, but I feel one thing for certain.

I have never wanted to save someone so much.

**8.**

There's too much blood.

Hanna tries to hide it, but it's hard to not see what's happened. It's on the sheets and in droplets on the floor that lead to the closed door of the bathroom. He's running water so I don't hear him gagging and retching, even though I do. I say his name through the door, but he doesn't answer, and then I am finally—_finally—_done being shut out. The lock doesn't work anyway, so I turn the knob and the door shudders open. There is blood in the sink, spilling over the edge onto the floor. It drips steadily and splashes tinier spheres of scarlet on the gray of the cracked linoleum floor. One of the tiny drops lands on the duct tape holding Hanna's checkered shoe together, and I let my eyes follow along the leg, up the small, anguished body. The whole picture comes together and Hanna is on the ground in front of me, gripping the toilet with red, red hands, but he's not vomiting any more, just breathing heavily and raggedly. At first, I don't think he sees me, but then, Hanna turns and his eyes are dull, surrounded by those deep half-crescents that look like bruises. And somehow—_somehow_—he manages a smile.

_I'm fine_.

Something in me wants to break at the sight of his crimson lips, smiling at me like everything is normal and there's nothing wrong and he's not in pain, bleeding, _suffering_ at all. I can't deal with it because I just can't let Hanna hurt himself anymore. Before I realize it, I'm on my knees beside him and my arms are around his bony, thin shoulders. My chest aches with humanity and love and concern and so many other things for Hanna. I wish that I could cry for him, for Hanna, but I can only hold him and say against his ear:

_Liar_.

**9.**

I wonder if anyone has ever taken care of him before.

I ponder this as I wipe the blood from Hanna's lips and chin with a damp cloth, then his cheek, neck, hands follow. I can't help but wonder, because Hanna looks like he wants to cry when I'm gentle with him as I pull him into my arms. He holds onto me like I am the only thing keeping him there at that moment. I want to tell him that it's okay to cry, if he wanted to, but he clutches at my shirt and does not dampen it with tears at all. And when the bloodied bedding is gone, after I lay him down on the mattress, he would not let me go.

_Stay_.

_Hanna._

_Please_.

I never heard Hanna say please before, and not like this.

So I stay.

**10.**

_Thank you._

It's said a few days later, after Hanna can stand without trembling, and he's eating more, which helps with the paleness that I thought would never leave. I know I can never ask him to stop doing what he does, because he's Hanna and he can't, so I remain silent. There's only so much I can do and that is what I've been doing: taking the punches when I can, fixing what I'm able, and making Hanna breakfast just the way he likes it.

And at night, when Hanna asks me to stay, I stay, because it's all I can do.

_For what_?

I flip the omelet in the pan and press down on it with the spatula. Hanna's arms come around my waist and he's so short compared to me that I feel his forehead resting in the place between my shoulder blades. I smile and let go of the pan with the handle that doesn't match so that I can place my hand over his.

_You know_.

I did.

After Hanna eats, he gets ready for work and puts on his favorite sweater with the mended sleeves. I can see the black stitches when he nears me and gives a gentle tug to my tie to make me bend down slightly. His lips press against mine, warm and tasting like the orange juice he'd had with breakfast. When we part, he smiles, and it's not that sad, broken one from before, but the kind that lights up his eyes so that they're beautiful, like a cloudless spring day. And I can't help but smile too.

_You're awesome_.

I may not be very good at fixing much—because when Hanna left, I heard the 6 swing haphazardly against the door again—but my lips are warm and taste like Hanna, so this time, maybe I did an okay job.


End file.
